Tortured Soul
by limabean2
Summary: Fallout from TS by BS


**TORTURED SOUL**

"I thought I could handle it, I thought I knew what I was doing. I thought it was the right thing--I know I was doing the right thing! My loyalty lies with Jim. He is a Sentinel, and it is my job as his Guide to protect him. He is my friend, and it is my job as a friend to protect him. I did neither, so I fixed it the only way I knew how. I'm not sorry I did it, not when I really think about it, so why do I feel so miserable? Why do I feel so lost, like I'm missing a part of myself? Well, I guess because I am. I've seen grief, I've studied the stages, but that doesn't help a goddamn bit. I feel like I'm coming apart, and I can't stop it. And I can't tell anyone; Jim already feels bad enough for accusing me of betraying him and then for how I gave up my career, and he might think I don't want to go to the Academy and I think I do, it's just..."

I'm losing my train of thought so I lay my pen down and close my eyes. My head is aching again...still. This stupid headache has been there since before the press conference; it's not really particularly painful, just an irritating reminder that my whole world has fallen apart. It doesn't look like my journal is going to be the recipient of any more coherent thoughts right now so I hide it and curl up on my bed. I feel like the epitome of misery, and I'm pretty sure I look the part. God I'm pitiful. I look over at my clock, and discover that it's 4:30; I should get up and start supper soon. But I don't want to do anything other than lie here in my pitifulness, and the very thought of moving my body isn't very appealing.

* * *

It is dark. Much too dark to be... what time had it been? What time is it? The red numbers of the clock burn into my retinas, mocking me. I have the sudden urge to throw the clock into a wall, but fortunately I catch the impulse before it reaches my hand. Instead I squint at the clock: 9:47. Damn! I meant to get up, to have dinner waiting for Jim. After all, he's working full time and since I have nothing to do until classes start at the academy I should do something to earn my keep.

"Come on, Sandburg, get your lazy ass out of bed," I grumble to myself, sitting up slowly and stretching before I slide off the bed and drift into the living room. "Jim?" I say softly, hoping he isn't too mad, but there is no answer. Great, either he's really, really pissed, or he's not home. That's when I see the message light flashing. Why hadn't I heard the phone? I walk over and push the button, and Jim's voice fills the loft.

"Sandburg, if you're there pick up." There was a pause, then he continued: "Okay, Connor and I got a big break on a case so I'm going to be late, don't worry about dinner. And Chief? It's, uh, it's not the same without you." That last comment, hesitant and soft as it was, nearly has me bursting into tears. Yeah, that's how fragile my emotional state is. I am not pleased. But what a nice thing for Jim to say.

I suppose I should eat something, but I'm not in the least bit hungry so I make sure the front door's locked, then turn around and head back to bed. There's nothing else to do. Literally. I am so not used to this.

Having slept in this morning and then having had a good long nap this afternoon, I wake from a light doze when Jim gets home. I can tell he's trying to be extra quiet and a quick glance at the clock--I'm glad now I didn't destroy it--tells me why; it's after 11. I could go out and see him, but I really don't want to face anyone right now. At least he doesn't know I spent most of the day asleep, thank god. And I don't want him to. He thinks I go out during the day and I do, sometimes, for groceries or something. But not with people. Many of my former friends won't speak to me, they feel betrayed, like I was personally lying to them all that time. The rest of them... they pity me, they're extra nice and supportive and I just can't take it. So I clean the loft, or do a little organizing, or read, but mostly I sit. Or sleep. I'm so tired all the time, I don't have enough energy or motivation to really do anything. So I wait. Wait for the Academy to start so I'll have something to occupy myself with, wait for something to happen, wait for anything. I used to go out there, get involved, make things happen. At this point being hit by a truck would likely be the highlight of my day. Maybe I can arrange it.

Satisfied that Jim isn't going to intrude in my little world locked away in this bedroom, I close my eyes and roll over.

* * *

The next thing I know my alarm is going off and this time I do take the goddamn thing and throw it against the wall. Hard. I get out of bed and look down at it; oh yeah, it's busted but good.

"Fuck." For some reason I'm extraordinarily pleased with myself.

I hear Jim come downstairs in a rush. He stops outside my door and says, "Chief? You okay?" Wow, he almost sounds concerned. I'm impressed, score one for the big lug.

"Fine, just had a disagreement with the clock."

There is a pause, then I hear "Okay," but he doesn't sound convinced. I don't care. Maybe I'll go back to bed. Or I could make breakfast for my hardworking Sentinel. Why on earth had I set my alarm anyway?

In desperate need of coffee I head for the kitchen, nearly bumping into Jim as he is still standing just outside the doors to my room. "Sorry, man," I say out of habit. I can't see Jim with my back to him, but I know he is shaking his head and looking frustrated.

"How do eggs sound?" I ask.

"Sounds good, Chief, you cooking?"

"You see anyone else?" Apparently I pulled off humour and not attitude because I catch a chuckle just before Jim closes the bathroom door. Good, maybe he'll stop worrying about me. I snort. Yeah, and monkeys will fly out of my butt.

I am merrily torturing the eggs when Jim emerges from the bathroom. Scrambled eggs are fun to make when you're angry, I have decided. I suppose it was worth getting up after all. Nothing like taking a little aggression out on your breakfast.

I serve up two plates of eggs and resolve to eat at least most of mine so my overly observant and protective roommate won't harp again on how little I'm eating. I mean, it's not like I do much of anything that requires energy lately; how many calories does a person burn staring out at the balcony anyway?

"Sandburg."

I look up, startled by my name. "Uh, yeah?" I try to look innocent.

"We have to talk."

"About what?" I take another bite of my eggs and chew slowly. I'm not in the mood for eggs.

"About you. Are you okay?"

"Sure, why do you ask?" Be cheerful, I coach myself, cheerful and enthusiastic. It's hard to be cheerful when every time I smile it feels unnatural, twisted, scary.

"You're not eating very well, you just seem kind of down."

"I'm just not used to having so much time, I'm enjoying the free time until classes start at the academy." Once again, Jim does not look convinced. At all.

"Okay," he says finally. "I probably shouldn't have brought this up now because I don't really have the time to get it out of you." Thank God. "But," he fixes me with a stare, "we are going to talk about it. There's something going on with you." I look away but Jim reaches across the table and tilts my head up so I meet his eyes, then continues: "And it's scaring me."

Shit. Shit, shit, double shit. I am not going to break down in front of Jim.

"Back off, man, I'm fine." I have the feeling I'm not coming across as strong and in control as I'd like. Jim's expression tells me he has the same feeling.

We finish eating in silence, and Jim leaves for the station. I clear the table and do the dishes on autopilot. What the fuck is wrong with me? I am not like this, this is not me. I am calm, rational, objective; a scientist. Jim's the one with the temper, he's the fearful and angry one. It sounds bad, but that's how I've always seen our relationship. Someone has to be the voice of reason when his senses are driving him crazy, making him irrational, and since I'm the only one who seems to be able to do it... It's not that our friendship is one-sided, not at all, it's just that I don't rant and rave about my feelings, I generally don't lash out in anger. I can be cruel, I know that, I'm good with words, but that doesn't happen often and when it does it's quieter, icier. I don't break things! I don't have to. If you get excited enough about something--and I do, I love what I've studied and the little impromptu lectures are not an act--people don't look further for genuine, raw emotion. I'm a master of the art of saying much and revealing little. So what's going on? I'm exploding at the drop of a hat, yet I can't seem to shake this sad lethargy, as if everything is pointless but I'm the only one who knows.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I see in my mind's eye a still picture of myself sitting beneath a tree with my throat slit. Immediately my mind looks for explanations while my body looks for something solid to lean against. Is it a vision? Intuitively I know that it is suicide, not murder. The image holds me in morbid fascination; it is so detailed, I know exactly where the scene is set. I am drawn to the balcony, and looking out over Cascade I can see the tree from my vision, it is in a park near here. I almost expect to see myself there, sitting under the tree. I fold my arms across my chest to reassure myself; I certainly feel real, and I'm not over there, so I must be, right?

What would it feel like to die like that? Drowning wasn't really so bad in retrospect, there was panic but very little pain beyond the head wound from when Alex hit me. Waking up was more painful than dying. What about this? Would it hurt, or would I be in shock? How hard would it be to slit one's own throat? Is it even possible?

I can't believe I'm thinking about this! My life isn't so bad, is it? I couldn't do this to Jim, to Naomi, could I? And yet the vision holds a distinctly selfish appeal...

I'm not sure how long I stand there, watching, but when I come back to myself I am shivering, chilled by the autumn wind. I need a shower.

Warm, clean, and dry, I haul one of the texts I had checked out of the Rainier library about two months ago out of my room. It's probably got all kinds of late charges on it now, but what are they going to do to me? They can't say I can't graduate until I pay, they can't keep me from registering for classes, they won't let me check out any more books anyway; I am definitely persona non grata around there.

It has started to rain, I can hear the drops against the window panes. Perfect reading weather. I want to be able to see outside so I lie down on the couch, angling myself to catch the maximum amount of dreary light I can on my book, open it, and start to read.

Several minutes later I slam the book shut and let it drop to the floor.

"This is insane! I can't concentrate." What do I need? I'm restless, like there's somewhere I need to go or something I need to do, but I don't know where or what it is and I haven't got the energy to figure it out. Plus my head is pounding again.

Outside the rain is still coming down in sheets, matching my mood. Maybe I'll go for a walk. At the door I pause, but another glance at the window convinces me that if I wear my jacket it'll get ruined, so it stays on the hook.

Two blocks later I admit to myself that I'm probably a little underdressed in jeans and a T-shirt, but I've come too far to go back now.

"Woah." I stop suddenly. "What the hell did that mean?" I glance around self-consciously, but all the intelligent people are either inside cars or buildings, and the sidewalk is deserted. No one pays any attention to me. I keep walking, but pick up the pace a little. I can barely see it's raining so hard, and little icy rivers of water keep trickling down my scalp, under my hair. The rest of my body is soaked of course, but for some reason this bothers me more. If I don't get warm soon I'll probably become hypothermic or something, but I'm reluctant to end this particular bout of self-pity. However, when I lick some of the water off my lip I can taste the saltiness of the mucus that runs down my face, and my eyes burn from the rain and unshed tears; it's time to go back. Damn, I've got myself so well-programmed I can't even cry out here, in the pouring rain, when no one will know! Whatever happened to 'showing weakness is a sign of strength'? I guess showing the world you're completely out of your tree isn't quite the same.

There is definitely something to be said for being warm and dry, you would think I'd know that by now.

Back at the loft, peeling off my clothes and noting absently the redness of my arms and legs contrasted with the bluish tinge of my toes and fingers, my original problem sneaks up on me. All of a sudden I find myself huddled on the floor of the bathroom, sobbing. It's not fair! I am tired of feeling like this, I don't want to feel like this any more! I curl my fingers into a fist and smash the side of my hand into the tub. Again and again and again. It hurts too much inside, I can't stand it any more. I can't do it.

"I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't..." Each exclamation is accompanied by the rhythmic pounding of flesh against porcelain. "I can't, I can't, I CAN'T, I CAN'T!" I scream the finale, then, naked and shivering, I go in search of a knife.

Knives really are beautiful tools, do you know that? There is a certain sleekness, efficiency, implied in their long curves and sharp edges. I lean over the sink holding the knife, contemplating it, watching the light reflect off it, seeing my own reflection. How tempting, how easy, but I can't do it. I can't do it to Jim, he'd be the one to find me. I can't do it to myself, I'm too much of a coward. Pain and I don't get along.

I drop the knife in the sink. I am so fucked up. I'm going to bed.

* * *

"Sandburg!!"

Uh oh, Jim sounds mad. It takes my sleep-fogged brain a few moments to figure out just what he might be upset about. Whoops, that's a no-brainer: I left my clothes in a sopping heap on the floor of the bathroom.

"Sorry!" I yell back, trying to decide if I should go clean up my mess, or let Jim come in and make me get up. My body votes for option B, but my brain remembers something my body doesn't, namely that I have no clothes on, and insists I find some or I'm going to be really cold cleaning that stuff up in my birthday suit. Not that I really think Jim would make me do it naked, but he already sounds mad and anything I say or do will probably make it worse, and you just don't provoke for no good reason a guy who can kill you 30 different ways with a hard-boiled egg, even if you know he wouldn't use any of those moves on you. Mmm, hard-boiled eggs, I could definitely go for one of those, and some apple juice. Comfort food. But first thing's first; on go yesterday's sweats, and I head out into the storm of my partner's wrath. At least it probably won't be as wet as the storm I was in earlier. I hope.

Jim is standing in the doorway of the bathroom, watching my pile of clothes as though if he stares at it long enough it'll go away. So I squeeze past him. Keep staring, Jim, and I'll make your wish come true. The clothes go in the bathtub, and I go looking for a mop. As I pull the mop out of the closet, I accidentally brush the side of my hand against the doorframe and the contact has me hissing in pain. Jim is by my side instantly. It seems no matter how mad he is, if I'm hurt he's there. No, I amend, if I'm hurt physically he's there. He's not as good at emotions, but he tries. Then again, who am I to talk? I haven't exactly been good at that sort of thing myself lately.

Jim gently probes the pad of my right hand and my attention returns to the present because "Damn that hurts!"

"Does it hurt anywhere else?" he asks and I shake my head no. "Well, Chief, you've got one hell of a bruise. You want to tell me what happened?"

No way am I telling him about my fight with the bathtub, he'd probably make me apologize. I almost chuckle; that thought is proof that I've lost it. "No, it's not important, I'm fine, I just forgot about it. Now, if you'll excuse me, the mop and I have a date in the bathroom."

"Woah, that's a little too kinky for me, Sandburg," Jim calls after me. I can't help it, I grin. It feels good.

By the time I get the floor cleaned up sufficiently to meet the exacting standards of a Sentinel, Jim is in the kitchen beginning supper.

Feeling almost human for the first time in days I put the bucket and mop away and go to the kitchen to offer my help with dinner. I find I even have an appetite, much to my surprise, and the chili we make is quickly devoured. There us nothing better than vegetarian chili!

Afterwards Jim and I sit at the table, neither one of us interested in cleaning up. I begin to feel uncomfortable as Jim's words from this morning come back to me. I finally feel like I'm on an even keel, however unstable it might be, and I don't want to lose that feeling. So, when Jim leans forward slightly and opens his mouth to speak, I tense.

"Sandburg, what's going on?"

"Jim, do we have to talk about this now?"

"When would you suggest?"

"Never. Look, I just haven't been sleeping well lately, I fell asleep for a couple hours this afternoon, I'm fine."

Jim closes his eyes and shakes his head. "You're not fine. You've been upset since the press conference--"

"Well why the hell wouldn't I be? My life as I'd planned it is over! Gone, disappeared, vanished, pick a synonym! It's a little upsetting."

"But you're more than a little upset."

Where is all this patience coming from? Jim's usually more of a 'suck it up, trooper' attitude. No, that's not fair; he can be very patient and empathetic with people he's questioning, and he can be the same way with me. But, for example, the time I was beat up by Brad Ventris' goons he handed me a bag of frozen peas, then dragged me along with him to work on the case. Okay, that's not fair, either. He didn't drag me, I wanted to go. And I wasn't really hurt, just some bruises, a black eye, and a headache; did I expect him to fawn over me like I was dying? Hell no, I would have hit him if he'd tried. Where has this train of thought brought me? To the realization that I, embarrassingly enough, can misjudge the guy as much as the next person, and I'm supposed to be his best friend. And, as my best friend, he probably has the right to know what's going on.

I open my mouth to tell him, and realize I haven't a clue what I'd say! Somehow "Hey, Jim, I've been having these visions of my death, a suicide," doesn't seem like the appropriate conversation opener. I mean, really blunt is effective, but sometimes gentle is a good thing... Oh, the hell with it.

"Hey, Jim, I've been having visions of my death."

Jim doesn't explode. Wow, this new patient attitude of his is very effective. "How long?"

"Huh?" How long 'till I die? How long are the dreams? What?

"How long have you been having these visions?"

"Not too long."

"How does it happen?"

Wow, that must have been a tough question to ask. It ain't gonna be a breeze to answer, either. I look down at the table. "Slit throat, self-inflicted." Say, what's that flying out the window over there? Oh, it's tact!

Jim takes a deep breath. "I saw Incacha last night, in a dream. He said: 'Your Guide's soul is sick, Enquiri.' Blair, I'm worried about you. And now you're thinking of suicide... Will you please tell me what's wrong so I can help?"

"I can't tell you, I don't know what's wrong! I just feel so..." I am not going to cry. Or, at least Jim's not going to see. I hide my face in my hands and let a couple tears leak out.

Have you ever been so sad your entire body aches and the only thing you can find enough energy to do is cry? I can't do this any more, I cannot be this miserable for the rest of my life. Something has got to change.

Suddenly there are hands on my shoulders, rubbing gently near the base of my neck. I feel myself beginning to relax, and I know I'm going to lose it so I stand abruptly and turn to head for the relative privacy of my room. Somehow Jim is no longer behind me but in front of me, and won't let me pass.

"Jim, come on man, this is not funny."

"It isn't meant to be." He wraps an arm around my shoulders and leads me to the couch where I sit, unable to do anything else. Jim sits on the coffee table in front of me and puts a hand on my knee. "It's okay to cry," he says.

Geez, he may not always be good with his own emotions and he may try to avoid dealing with others', but he's got a deep, intuitive wisdom he pulls out every once in a while, dusts off, and surprises me with. Again. And I realize how profoundly I have underestimated him as a friend lately. He cares, and I don't have to do this alone. I'm not alone.

A keening sound emerges, unbidden, from my throat, and I let go. Jim moves around to sit beside me and pulls me in close, surrounding me with his body and his love, letting me cry.

Eventually, Jim's touch and soothing words and my own exhaustion overwhelm me and I fall asleep.

* * *

When I wake I am in my own bed, and something's different; I feel lighter. My head aches from crying so hard, but I feel better than I have in weeks. My 'who cares, life sucks' attitude has withdrawn, at least temporarily, and I am hopeful that things will improve. I actually feel like getting out of bed, which is a start. I'm a little embarrassed about breaking down in front of Jim last night, but it was what I needed and I am so, so grateful he was there. I've got to do something nice for him. But first, I have to pee.

Jim must have heard me because he is downstairs when I get out of the bathroom.

"Morning!" I say, smiling.

"Morning," he replies, a somewhat bemused expression on his face, "you seem to be in a good mood. How are you feeling?"

"Better." Later I'm sure I'll work out in detail just exactly how I feel better, but for now it's good to just enjoy it.

"Good. Listen, Chief, I want you to promise me something."

"What?"

"Don't let it go that far again, okay? Talk to me first, or talk to someone. You're not alone, you shouldn't let it get so bad you're considering suicide without having given someone the chance to help you. You don't have to go through that on your own. Will you promise me that?" Wow, he really jumped straight into that one, didn't he? He must have been really worried.

"Yeah. I'm really sorry, Jim, I--"

"It's okay, I just don't want to see you in that much pain. I want to help, okay?"

I nod. "Thanks."

"I'm not kidding here, Chief. I know what it's like, and you don't need to go through that." He gets this faraway look in his eyes and I know not to interrupt. "When I got back from Peru, everything was so messed up. I had lost my team, but I hadn't let myself feel it the whole time I was there because I had a mission to complete. I just sort of lost myself in the jungle, it was easier that way. It was when I got back to Cascade that everything hit me; the fact that I'd been unable to save any of the men in my squad, that I'd screwed up the mission so badly they hadn't even known I was out there. The debriefings took care of any shred of self-confidence I'd managed up keep up to that point. According to them, I'd done everything wrong. The media insisted on calling me a hero, while condemning me for some of the things I did out there. It was very confusing; I knew my experiences in Peru had changed me, and I no longer knew where I fit into Cascade. To make things worse I couldn't decide if I wanted to just fit right back into my life, or if things needed to change. Having the media follow me everywhere didn't make it any easier to make a decision, so at one point I decided the easiest thing would be to get it over with, make myself a martyr or a scapegoat, whatever they wanted to do. I had no one--I didn't speak with my father or my brother, and my closest friends had been in my squad--I was completely alone. I don't think I ever could have actually gone through with it, but it was damn tempting to think about.

"Then I met Carolyn. She was smart and funny and she had this attitude, like she could take on anyone or anything and come out on top. I needed that. And she made me feel loved, genuinely loved and cared for. She helped me through a lot of that stuff, and we got married. Once I found my way back, though, I didn't need her in the same way any more, and we realized that our relationship had been based on need and control rather than love; I needed her, and she liked being in control. That's why we broke up."

He stops speaking and just stands there, perfectly still. I'm not much more animated, although my mind is racing; he had never told me this before, never even insinuated it! Even after talking with Carolyn I hadn't really caught onto this aspect of their marriage, I'd been focussing more on Jim, and the basis of his responses.

Without thinking I move closer to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, I never realized, I can't believe I missed--"

"It's okay, I'm fine, that's not the point. The point is I want you to know that I'm here and I've been through it before too. Okay? That's all."

That's all. That's all, he says, like he hasn't just let me deeper into his past than he ever has before, at least voluntarily. While I'm still in shock, Jim pulls me in close to him, pressing my face to his chest and resting his chin on the top of my head. He doesn't say anything else, which doesn't surprise me, he just stands there. I close my eyes and am still; I want to keep this moment with me forever, as a reminder of what a wonderfully complex person my friend is, and of how much he cares about me. Me! I think this moment can get me through anything, and I never want it to end.

THE END


End file.
